Mark Heathcote

A Poetic Exile - Poem by Mark Heathcote

What is there to berate Life—form: Why equate It has not any meaning..? Every sap that's shelled-out The husk, longs further, seeding. 'Every breath a waterspout Leaps into death, pupate. And is yet, still, dreaming... Of the wings of perfection', Too fulfil life's passion. The gift of love's pre-emption...